Star Crossed
by SparksIgniteTheInferno
Summary: The story behind Cato and Clove, the real star-crossed lovers from District 2.
1. Sealed by a Kiss

**A/N: Hi guys. This is my first fan fiction, so there are guaranteed mistakes. This takes place pre-Games, and months before the Reaping. Sorry that this chapter is short, I just wanted to get it up quickly.  
**

Clove stared into the vast expanse of trees decorating the lower land of District 2. It was going to be cut down for more residents moving in to District 2. Clove's thoughts wandered through her mind. It was upsetting to see where she grew up—practically her whole childhood was going be cut down by a simple prompt from the mayor to the Capitol.

Her fingertips brushed along the blade of her knife, inspecting it. She had never in her lifetime killed someone, but Clove was very capable of doing so. She'd fought and trained her hardest ever since she was 8—4 years younger than when most kids start their training. Her father forced her to, though. He'd yell at her every day she didn't train; beat her and abuse her. Except for weekends. He often left the house then, so Clove took weekends as a gift from heaven. A light tap on her shoulder, which caused her to jump and raise her blade on a brooding figure, interrupted her thoughts.

"Hey, Clove. I see your reflexes are as fast as usual." The corner of Cato's lips curved upward into a smirk, and his hand reflexively moving towards the hilt of his sword just in case she actually did swing.

Clove swore and lowered her knife. "Damn you, Cato! I could have hurt you." Her hazel eyes flickered with annoyance. Cato and Clove had been friends since they were 7, since their families were long-time friends and both families had a long line of past Victors.

Cato merely shrugged, staring at her knife, which was laid by her waist. "But," he sat down beside Clove, eyes locked on hers, "you didn't."

"Do you _value_ your life?" She hissed, obviously irritated at Cato's reaction to her worry. Cato was one of the only people who she cared about, and he was one of the people—maybe the only one—who could make Clove laugh. But he could also get on her last nerve easily, especially since he knew her inside out. They were extremely close, but one small action could set either one off—they both had a short fuse, which intervened quite a bit in their relationship.

"Yes, I do. But, you weren't going to hurt me, though. And you didn't. So can we end this argument?" Cato's tone was earnest now. His gaze was still held on Clove, but all laughter that remained had vanished. "I came here to ask you if you would like to train with me," he remarked.

Clove bit down on her lip hard. Blood sprung on her lip as she pierced the skin, and the bitter taste of her own blood filled her mouth. "Sure," she muttered, almost to herself. Clove almost lost her temper on something that barely mattered. She'd began wondering if she couldn't manage her anger better, she would injure someone that sneaked up on her, when she was lost in thought—just as Cato did.

***Switch to Cato's POV***

Cato led the way to the Training Center. Along the way, they past by both of their homes. He'd been neighbors with Clove for the longest time, and visited each other very often. His eyes drifted up on Clove's house—it was large. Multicolored stones decorated the front, and the rest of the house was beige stucco. The house was significantly square, but some perceptible rooms had multiple vertices, forming an octagon. The main entrance were mahogany doors with two long glass windows; the pattern on them distorted your sight from a clear view inside.

Cato tore his eyes away from Clove's house and continued to approach the Training Centre, Clove ahead of him now. His eyes wandered onto Clove's figure—her petite frame, the way she walked in small yet confident strides, and how her hair was tied up into a high ponytail. She'd never let her hair down. Not that Cato remembered, at least.

He cursed silently, reprimanding himself. Cato couldn't love Clove, or form any sign of attraction towards her. It made him weak. But when the Reaping came and the time was for volunteers, he had to volunteer with or without Clove. Cato was 17—he would have one more year, but from now on, he couldn't get any stronger. And he decided his eagerness for the Games overwhelmed the thought of waiting another year.

The Training Centre began to come into view. It was this grand, dome-shaped building with a small entrance. Shades of grey covered the whole building. It was nothing special—Cato saw it 5 days a week. The bold red lettering was capitalized on top of the doorway:

**DISTRICT 2 TRAINING CENTER**

Cato stepped into the Training Center nonchalantly seconds after Clove, already shrugging off his sweater. He flicked the light switch on, and light flooded his vision. He blinked several times, regaining his sight, and walked directly ahead to the mats. There was no one at the Center on Saturdays, even though it was open for everyone. But Cato wanted to spend time training with Clove.

Cato already had his weapon. They practiced without shields. "Come on," Cato said.

Clove stepped towards Cato until her feet were on top of the soft mat. She nodded at him, before her gaze wandered towards the targets. "Can I practice knife throwing first? And then I'll even have a sword fight with you," she said with a large grin enveloping her face, and soon her cheeks.

Cato shrugged, his lips moving to right of his face. "Sure."

***Switch to Clove's POV***

Clove wandered over to the targets, slipping out one of her knives that were lined in an impressive array in her jacket. She took several steps backwards, until she was about 25 feet away from her target, and narrowed her eyes. She began to aim, holding the dagger so it grazed her cheek, and after a moment she threw it with great force. The knife flew across the room, flipping several times, and Clove tensed. For a moment she thought it wouldn't hit directly on the bulls eye. Her thought was incorrect as it landed straight on the red circle that marked the center of the target, and a satisfactory grin spreaded across her face that replaced the concentrated look. She threw another knife, landing just beside the other knife, and went to retrieve them.

After sheathing her knives back into her coat jacket, she walked back in the direction of the weapons' rack. Clove found her sword—it was 3'5" long, and was steel coated with a faded bronze color. The grip was rubbery in her hands. She stepped back onto the blue mat laid on the floor specifically for sword fighting, and averted her gaze from her sword to Cato. "Ready?"

"Always have." He gestured for her to make the first move—they both knew Cato was stronger and more talented with swords, while Clove was specialized in knives.

Clove swung the sword directly at Cato, and he countered it with a diagonal block. He returned the swing with a stronger one that required Clove to sidestep it. His strength would have easily overpowered her block. While he was stunned, Clove took the opportunity to swing her sword, backhand, to Cato's back. He winced in pain as the blade made contact to his back, forming a long wound.

Clove didn't hesitate to send another swing his way. He blocked her swing again, and slipped his foot in between hers to trip her. She went tumbling to the floor, and Cato flung around and pinned her to the ground, holding his sword's blade to her neck. After a moment, he stood up and extended a hand to her. Clove glanced at his hand, and after a moment's hesitation she took it.

Her action was a big mistake. He flung her sideways and lifted his sword up to hers. Clove's strength was no match for Cato's, though. Their swords clashed again, this time barely missing her face. Clove flinched away and slipped out one of her knives, and suddenly a huge smirk plastered her lips. She stepped past Cato and cornered him to the wall, holding it to his neck.

He cringed slightly when the blade made a shallow cut in his neck. Cato shook his head furiously, shoving Clove into a wall. "Don't play dirty. I clearly said this was a sword fight."

She flung her gaze left and right, gulping her saliva. "Cato." There was a warning note in her voice. "Watch it. You're . . ." Her voice trailed off. Instead, she asked a more important question. "Can you hear me?"

Cato ignored her voice, eyes burning with rage. It was all a blur to him. He hit her with the hilt of the sword and kicked her shin, what he hoped was lighter than intended suddenly. Clove cried out. Her cheek had the imprint of the handle, now. The skin where Cato had kicked her was now bleeding—her scab had reopened, and blood poured onto her shoe. She tried again, ignoring the sharp pain in her leg. "_Cato._"

He placed his two hands slightly over Clove; his huge figure looming over her. Clove somehow knew this was it. He'd kill her. Whenever he got angry, or even slightly agitated, things could go from serene to havoc. She focused on the sheen of sweat caked on the back of his neck, and then squeezed her eyelids shut, bracing herself for the blow.

Instead, he kissed her.


	2. Conflicting Emotions

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Sydney.**

Clove pressed her eyes shut, not quite comprehending the situation quite yet. After a second, she pulled back, slamming her body to the cushioned wall, glaring balefully at Cato. "You decide to kiss me, now? What's wrong with you?" Her words were filled with venom.

"Clove—"

Her hand struck across his cheek; a loud crackle resonated across the Training Center's walls. She sidestepped Cato's forward movement and bent down to pick up her knife, sheathing it back in her jacket, where the rest of the array of knives where. Not even casting one glance back, Clove stormed out of the Training Center and straight to her house, her mind flooding with contradicting thoughts. _How could Cato like me? How long has he liked me? Why is he acting so . . . strange now? Do I like him?_ Clove stopped mid-thought, colliding into a tree because she was so tuned out of the world. She silently cursed and chastised herself for that last question. She couldn't have possibly liked Cato. But everything became so different now, in her perspective. Her mind was muddled. What if she always had, it was just that she had never noticed?

***Cato's POV***

It was all a blur. One moment he was threatening her, the next he had kissed her. He dropped his sword and slammed his fist against the floor in frustration. Cato had lost her. Because of his stupid little feelings for her. He marched out of the room, sword in hand, and carrying Clove's jacket tossed across his shoulder. If Cato could form one clear thought, it was that he wasn't going to apologize, that was for sure. Cato's stubbornness got in the way for apologies.

The cool breeze danced in harmony with the long grass as Cato reached the exit of the Training Center. He trampled through the dirt path, heading directly to his house. He didn't really care about his father and mother's arguments, or his little sister's pleading at the moment. _"Can I go training yet?" "When will I be eligible for the Games?" "What will happen if you don't return home?" _These were common questions Flora tended to ask. He had the same responses each time, it was almost rehearsed. Flora was only 10, and Cato didn't need to worry about her and the Games if he won. They would have all the money in the world and not have to give a second thought for not having enough food.

Cato tugged his jacket so it was snugger and enveloped his body better as he felt a cool chill run up his spine. How had the temperature dropped so quickly? His house was visible in the distance. He sped up his pace; a strong chilly breeze fighting against his body. Cato had finally reached his house in what seemed a decade. Maybe it was just his thoughts that were stretching time, and what had just occurred. He entered his house with his key, spun around, and locked the door. His family was out. Good. Cato raced upstairs to his room, and laid down gingerly, recalling the last moments with Clove. A stab of pain shot through his forehead—when did he have a headache?—and Cato winced, both at the memory and headache. He knew it would be a while before he would be able to talk to her.

***Clove's POV***

Clove ran a hand through her hair, sighing in discontent when she reached her house. There was nothing to do anymore, now that _he_ was gone. A fleeting sense of—worry? Satisfaction?—filled her stomach. She was thoroughly confused about Cato. Brutal, strong Cato liked her? There must have been something wrong, surely. Cato couldn't have liked her.

Clove entered her house to the noise of boys yelling. Her brothers. Blood ran up to her cheeks—she had completely forgotten about them. Her eyes dilated as she entered the family room.

Papers were sprawled out everywhere—books were torn open. Her books. It looked like a tornado traveled across the room. Chairs were pushed over, and the sharp ceramic pieces of plates spread across the whole room. She cast a glance into the kitchen, reluctantly, and an exact replica of the family room was there—shattered glasses, broken mugs, plates, and butter knives scattered the tiles. A pinkish stain decorated the walls—juice, Clove guessed, in a wavy pattern.

"MAX! SAM!" Her scream echoed throughout the house.

After a few shouts, the sound of quickened footsteps sounded down the stairs, approaching her. A ten-year-old boy entered the kitchen tentatively. He had ruffled brown hair and an innocent look to his face and bright blue that deceived many. Two seconds later, the boy who reacted to the name Sam came in, with the same features as Clove—dark brown hair and curious hazel eyes. They looked up at their sister. "We're sorry," the words came out as a jumble from both of them; as they spoke at different times.

Clove stared incredulously at them. "You two—how could you two, measly boys make this _huge_ mess? You both better clean this up before I come back in two hours. _Or you will not want to know your fate._"

And with that, she stormed out of the house in a flash.

***Cato's POV***

Cato pressed his hand to his neck, right where Clove had cut him, and his fingers returned with a scarlet red liquid. It seemed to be taking effect now—the cut had worsened, and blood had come pulsing out, down his white shirt, which caused it to stain in blood. He scanned his room for medical supplies. Surely, he had to have bandages in the vicinity of his house. He got injured all the time, so his parents bought new medical supplies every month. Cato stumbled up to his feet, and slowly made his way towards the corresponding side of his room.

"40 feet . . . ," he assured himself. As he got closer to the exit of his room, the more effort Cato had to take for each step. He was losing blood at a significant rate. Cato was slightly aware of the trail of blood he was making. He staggered across his room to the kitchen, where the medical cabinets were situated.

"30," Cato breathlessly walked closer and closer to the cabinets, across the living room. It seemed to be miles away to him, and his vision was starting to blur—everything was slanted to him, and his peripheral vision had already vanished.

"20," he was nearing the cabinets now. They were in sight—barely. His thoughts started to muddle. A sigh emitted from his lips as he reached out for the handle—it was just in reach. He could only form one clear thought: _I'm not going to make it. _Then, he fell to the floor and his vision went black.

***Clove's POV***

She forced an exasperated sigh out of her lips as she exited the mess of the house. Maybe she had been too harsh on her brothers. _No,_ she thought. They deserved everything she said. Clove didn't feel a twinge of guilt.

Clove's quick strides began towards the forest. She wanted to stay there after this weary day. Her knife was still pocketed in her jacket, and just as she reached the edge of the forest, she laughed, to herself, and jumped down the hill. She landed soundlessly on the ground. Clove began to walk towards the abandoned wooden cabin at the outskirts of the woods. Nearing it, she noticed the windows were illuminated—who would be there? It took her a second to guess—Sydney.

Clove knocked softly at the door, then firmer the second time. A girl, about an inch taller than herself, answered the door with a smile. She had dark hair that reached down to just below her mid-back, and long, elegant features that were finished with warm eyes.

"Clove, how nice to see you."

Sydney was one of Clove's only female friends at school. All the other girls seemed, well—too girly. "Sydney," she began. "What a relief." Clove muttered to herself. Sydney would lighten her mood, after all that happened. She leaned against the doorframe, Clove's features slowly regaining her composure.

"You can sit, you know." Sydney said. Clove blinked, a wave of lethargy washing over her suddenly at the mention, and she quickly took a seat beside Sydney. "You seem . . . annoyed. What happened?"

"A lot. Don't bother asking," Clove scowled and gazed into the glowing fire. They stayed like that in silence for a few moments.

"How's Cato?"

Clove's features reddened, and she suddenly remembered their talk. Quicker than a cheetah, she stood up. "I have to go," Clove mumbled and she flew out the door in a hurry. Sydney smirked after her, not pursuing her. Something definitely happened between Cato and Clove.

Clove raced through the woods, the occasional branch scraping her limbs, but she didn't care. Her heartbeat was racing, as she thought of one person: Cato. Where was he? She needed to apologize. Picking up her pace, Clove jogged towards his house.

The door was left unlocked, as usual. The door swung open with a creek, signifying that the hinges needed oiling. Only she would know that, though—her father taught Clove everything—he wanted her to be the best. Even if it required abusing her to get out her full potential. He wanted her to be physically fit, and have a quick mind—most Careers left out the second. That was most of the reason behind her viciousness and hatred for everything. _Almost_ everything.

Clove let out a sigh—she suspected he would have locked it this time. The first room Clove headed towards was his room. Entering the door, there was a trail of dark-red droplets on the ground—blood. Her face grew pale. What had Cato done? What had _she _done? She left the room abruptly, tracking down the where the trail of blood led to. The kitchen. The kitchen island shielded her view, so she slowly approached the corner of the kitchen—and there he was. His neck was pasted with blood, and his eyes were shut. His features and muscles were completely slack.

Clove screamed. _I may have just been too late._


	3. Means of Life and Death

**A/N: So, I've changed the way this is written. To change POVs, there will be a line across the screen. Please enjoy this chapter, I'm sorry I haven't updated in ages!**

Her vision darted from left to right, desperately looking for a phone. The sickening pool of blood was slowly creeping bigger and bigger. Then, she saw it. A few feet away lay a phone, and she scrambled towards it clumsily.

"Cato, stay with me, please," Clove said, her voice cracking. She pressed three numbers into the phone, hard: 911, and held it up to her ear with her free hand.

"Hello?" The voice of an officer filled the speaker.

"Hi—this is—this is serious. I'm at Ca—I mean, I'm at 2 Maple Crescent. A boy's bleeding profusely . . . he needs help. Please, help him, officer . . ." Her voice trailed off. It sounded strained. Full of worry. Remorse. Anxiety.

"We'll send an ambulance and be there as quick as possible." The phone line buzzed and the phone slipped out of Clove's usually dexterous fingers that were now trembling, as she stared at Cato apprehensively. Even if she didn't love him like _that_, she did care for him immensely. He was her whole childhood.

* * *

_A girl laughs in his arms,_

_but she is so distant._

_Is this a dream? Is this a memory?_

_He does not care, he does not care._

_He wills to live in the moment,_

_even if it is so impossibly real,_

_his mind tells him otherwise._

_Is he dead?_

_He does not care, he does not care._

"_Just live in the moment," his mother had said,_

_and like an obedient boy, he obeyed her._

"_Be reckless," she had said,_

_and the boy listened._

_But now that he was older, he had realized_

_that was not possible._

_No, for he cared for this girl,_

_he cared for her more than himself._

_He broke his mother's rules,_

_because he knew this girl._

_This girl was his life._

* * *

The blur of the luminescent lights was smeared in Clove's peripheral vision. Boisterous noises, beeping, walking into an ambulance. She didn't process anything. All she knew of was that Cato was dying. The constant war raging inside herself was getting continually larger—she wanted to check on him, but feared the result she would find.

_He's not dead._

Startled, Clove looked up. Did she imagine this? Her eyes swept through the room for the person that the voice belonged to, but returned with nothing. She ran her fingers through her dark hair as they sped through the street. It was all her fault. She was the reason for this whole problem. She didn't deserve to have him, all she brought on was disappointment and death. Maybe her dad was right. She should have let no one close to her and remained a ruthless and cold warrior. A child soldier playing by the rules.

"We're at the hospital," a voice dispatched, cutting through her thoughts like a razor blade. "Clove."

She looked up reluctantly at the nurse. "You're not allowed in the hospital. Room, that is. I'm going to room 121, the door will remain open only for a minute maximum." She shook her head, and walked down the ambulance's ramp and into the hospital.

Clove frowned in thought. The nurse's voice wasn't a reprimanding one. In fact, she had hinted her. Why else would she have said that last sentence?

She darted down the hall after the nurse, and then slid across the corridor. The door was closed, a thread of light seeping through the crack at the bottom. She cracked it open to peer through and gazed at Cato on the operation table for an endless amount of time. She couldn't even remember how long she stood there until the doctors cleared the room.

Clove walked in quietly, looking left and right before running towards Cato. A soft sob escaped her lips.

"I'm—I'm so sorry, Cato. I didn't mean to—I mean, I—I—," tears shone in her eyes as she tried to swallow down her fear. He would be okay. _He would be._

She looked up at the heart monitor, its jagged lines signaling a heartbeat being steady but slow. She stared at it for minutes, before it came to a stop, and the monitor started to buzz. Her heart skipped a beat. _No._

"No! Cato, wake up, listen to me!" She sank against his head, wetting his face with her tears. He was still warm.

"Stop playing games, Cato, _this isn't funny! I mean it!_"

Her voice rose to a scream, as she sobbed again. "Oh my God, Cato."

She stared down at him, closing her eyes. "I love you so much. I'm sorry." Tentatively, she leaned towards him and pressed a soft kiss against his lips. "Wake up, please."

Doctors rushed into the room, staring at the heart monitor and then her. Their eyes were filled with sorrow, whispering sorry. But nothing would make this better, nothing would fix what had just happened.

As if not believing it, she pressed her ear down to his chest, waiting for a heart beat.

To prove her wrong, the heart monitor wrong, the doctors wrong.

To make everything okay again.

...

It took several blinks to revive her sharp vision, but when she did, she bolted upwards. Her face was still tearstained, and she found herself staring at a doctor's vacant face.

"You went into shock, miss. We had to give you a tranquillizer."

_That makes no sense,_ she thought. _Why would I have been panicky?_

Clove yawned and nodded at the doctor without irreverence, but not quite appreciation either. "Why am I here, anyway?"

That phrase brought her a nervous glance at her. "Well . . . you—you were watching over a boy, and he . . ."

Clove froze, trying to keep her composure. The terrifying memory flooded back to her; it was too vivid to forget.

"Where is he?"

"Well, I was instructed to keep you—"

She shook her head and started again, more firmly this time. "_Where is he?"_

"Miss, I cannot have you—"

But Clove had already darted to her feet, and made a beeline to the door. Pushing the doctor away impatiently, she ran down the corridor, trying to find the right door number; hair flying into her face. Her eyes glanced left and right, everywhere for her training partner. But he was not just her training partner; he was so much more than that. He was an ally. Best friend. Trainer. Accomplice. Rival. Schoolmate. And most recently, lover.

In her mind, it had taken longer than forever to find Cato, the boy she cared so much for. But in reality, it was only minutes until her hazel eyes landed on the golden-haired boy. She inhaled sharply, and walked in slowly, not wanting to know what had happened to him and yet waiting for his fate all along. As she tiptoed down to his cot, she heard a familiar beep, slow but steady . . . but how was that possible? Holding in her breath, she frowned curiously at the heart monitor. _It was beeping again._

* * *

A faint smile grew on his lips as he stared up at her.

"Sorry, but you're not getting rid of me this time, Clove." His feeble voice broke, but nevertheless, Cato used all his strength to utter any word at all.

Cato's ears were able to register Clove gasping underneath her breath, and if Cato could've laughed, this was the time.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. How . . . What? What kind of joke is this, Cato? How'd you . . ."

His lips twitched. "Well, according to the doctors, they restarted my heart."

"And to think I gave them a hard time," Clove groaned. She sunk against his strong chest, but even to Cato, it was a burden to remain breathing. He remained silent about the matter.

"I—I swear to God, I am so sorry, Cato. _Cato." _She murmured his name as if it were a miracle. "I didn't know . . . I—oh God, one minute I was angry, the next you were on the floor when I was about to apologize, and . . ."

Cato could feel her shaky breaths against his chest. She was crying. Tough, fierce, relentless Clove was crying.

"I thought I was going to _lose _you," she murmured.

Cato gingerly raised his palm to stroke her cheek, as if she were the one who was hurt. In an undertone, he mimicked, "_'I thought I was going to _lose _you.'" _Rolling his eyes, he sighed, "You know I'm a fighter, I don't see why you were worried at all, Clove. Stop being cheesy and toughen up."

She laughed, and it sounded so angelic to him. "In a time of vulnerability, you cover it up with wit and sarcasm."

"I don't know whether or not that was a question, but either way, I'm going to respond with a yes to that. I mean, it seems like _you _were the one who was harmed. And yet this is the girl who simply _cheated _in our swordfight to win? A disgrace to your family," he said sarcastically. "Anywho, you broke my train of recollection."

"_Anywho?_" She repeated after him, looking at him ridiculously. "Maybe we have to get you checked for brain damage too."

Ignoring her, he thought out loud, "Now, where was I? Oh yeah. Prior to dying—"

"Melodramatic," Clove muttered.

"—you were saying something to me. I love you, was it?" The question was rhetorical, but caused a faint blush to creep to Clove's cheeks.

"And then . . . oh, and then you did something. Not just something, was it? A bit intimate. You kissed me. There better be an explanation for that, missy. You are dismissed until I have that explanation."


End file.
